WHEN I behold thee, O my indolent love, To the sound of ringing brazen melodies, Through garish halls harmoniously move, Scattering a scornful light from languid eyes; When I see, smitten by the blazing lights, Thy pale front, beauteous in its bloodless glow As the faint fires that deck the Northern nights, And eyes that draw me wheresoe'er I go; I say, She is fair, too coldly strange for speech; A crown of memories, her calm brow above, Shines; and her heart is like a bruised red peach, Ripe as her body for intelligent love. Art thou late fruit of spicy savor and scent? A funeral vase awaiting tearful showers? An Eastern odor, waste and oasis blent? A silken cushion or a bank of flowers? I know there are eyes of melancholy sheen To which no passionate secrets e'er were given; Shrines where no god or saint has ever been, As deep and empty as the vault of Heaven. But what care I if this be all pretense? 'T will serve a heart that seeks for truth no more. All one thy folly or indifference, -- Hail, lovely mask, thy beauty I adore! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE MOUNTAIN FASTNESS by HAYDEN CARRUTH JULY IN GEORGY by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON SWEET CLOVER by EDGAR LEE MASTERS WINDFLOWER LEAF by CARL SANDBURG ELEGY: THE GHOST WHOSE LIPS WERE WARM; FOR GEOFFREY GORER by EDITH SITWELL THE HAWK by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS |